MR. SCHOFIELD’S BOMBSHELL THE meeting room of Scioto lodge, B. of L. E., was jammed to the doors. Every member who was off duty and who could by any possibility attend, was present. Many of them had come in from the road only a short time before, and in the ordinary course of things, would have gone home, got something to eat, and gone to bed; but the present crisis took the place of food and sleep, and its excitement robbed them of desire for either. The meeting hall was on the third floor of a brick building only a short distance from the station. It was reached by two long flights of steep and narrow stairs, and was cold and scantily furnished and uninviting. At various points about the room, large arm chairs stood on little platforms, these being the stations for the officers of the lodge, when going through the intricacies of the ritual. Rows of smaller chairs were pushed back along the walls, there was a table or two—and that was all. On this bright morning in late January, as has been said, the hall was crowded. A group had gathered around Bassett, who was declaiming excitedly. “It’s our chance,” he was saying. “Now’s the time t’show the road who’s boss. You know well enough all the other orders’ll stand by us, an’ we’ll tie the division up so tight it can’t turn a wheel.” The younger men nodded emphatically, but a few of the older ones looked grave. They had been through strikes before, and knew that they did not always turn out as the strikers anticipated. “I don’t know,” put in one of them, hesitatingly. “I don’t believe we’ll ever be able to boss the road. It don’t look right. If you had a business, you’d want to run it, wouldn’t you?” “Yes,” flashed Bassett. “But I’d run it square.” “O’ course; we kin do our best to make ’em run it square.” “Well, that’s all we’re tryin’ to do now, ain’t it?” “Some o’ you fellers seem to be hopin’ there’ll be a strike. Mebbe they’ll reinstate Bassett.” “Mebbe they will,” growled that worthy, “but I don’t believe it. They ain’t got manhood enough to do that.” In his heart, he knew that he had been wrong, and did not deserve reinstatement; but this consciousness of guilt interfered in no way with the bold face he turned to the world, and the loud voice in which he proclaimed his wrongs. And a bold face and loud voice often have great weight with the unthinking, who mistake them for the earmarks of innocence. “Well, I hope they will,” said another of the older men, wistfully. “I ain’t in no sort o’ shape to stand a strike.” “I ain’t either,” put in one of the younger men, boldly, “but that don’t make no difference. I’d ruther starve ’n work fer a company as wouldn’t do the right thing.” “It’s all right to starve yourself,” rejoined the older man. “I used t’ feel that way, too; but when it comes t’ starvin’ yer family, it’s a different matter—mighty different.”